


The Ferryman

by RumbelleDearie



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Canon Compliant, Gentle Kissing, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Lighthouses, M/M, Metaphors, Past FlintHamilton, Suicidal Thoughts, Suspense, i'm actually not sure how to tag this one, it's no darker than what Flint is internally going through season 3, maybe? - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:15:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26446924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RumbelleDearie/pseuds/RumbelleDearie
Summary: When James first saw the body he thought it might be a siren or a devil’s trick conjured by the lighthouse to lure him outside on a storm such as tonight, to finally help him reach his end. He was prepared to find her face, her wide brown eyes. But as James climbed over the slick and irregular rocks, bringing the lantern closer, he recognized that this siren was real.His hand shook with adrenaline as he reached for the man’s neck, skin as cold as death greeted him until he felt the slow pump of a pulse. His survival instincts were renewed at the sign of life. James reached down to scoop the man up into his arms. It was lucky the man was slim and James was broad. Even still, his footing slipped as he adjusted to the man’s weight, his balance teetering as another wave came crashing against the cliff and threatened to swallow them both. James could see the warm glow of the lighthouse in the distance as the water cut him to the bone.He abandoned his lantern on the rock, climbing over the black stones, unafraid of the darkness.(This story is inspired by James internal struggle during the beginning half of season three.)
Relationships: Captain Flint | James McGraw/John Silver
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	The Ferryman

**Author's Note:**

> This story is very dear to my heart. I hope you enjoy, and happy reading everybody!

XXX

Glass is a peculiar substance. Built from the smallest grains of sand their foundation is ever shifting and uncertain; yet formed together they create a strong expanse that is just as easily shattered. There is a vulnerability to glass. It is smooth and sleek, yet can draw blood with it’s edge. You could end lives with it. 

It was maddening that one substance could hold so many forms.

XXX

The window pains always rattled during a storm. The rain echoed like pebbles thrown against the glass, calling for you attention, drawing you in. Despite the crash of the waves and the screams of the wind, the fog was gentle tonight: like a ghost's breath sending messages from a time beyond.

Holding the gas lantern up to the window, James squinted. The image of another soul reflected in the corner of the glass.

As the rain ran down the pain, melting a path through the fog, he felt a warm pulse of air on the back of his neck. The downy peach hairs on his arm prickled with chill as the patch of fog on the window expanded - his own breath held anxiously beneath his sternum.

The letters began to appear on the glass with clear deliberate strokes.

_H - E - L - P._

James let out a puff of breath, the words dissolving as if they were never really there.

Movement in the corner of the pain caught his attention. His first instinct was to turn around and greet emptiness, but when he squinted and looked again James recognized the shape of a body crashing against the shoal of rocks. 

A living, breathing body. Or so he hoped.

XXX

When James first saw the body he thought it might be a siren or a devil’s trick conjured by the lighthouse to lure him outside on a storm such as tonight, to finally help him reach his end. He was prepared to find her face, her wide brown eyes. But as James climbed over the slick and irregular rocks, bringing the lantern closer, he recognized that this siren was real.

Panic forced him into action. James climbed down the sharp cliff face, the sea jarring against the rocks and the sharp cold liquid kissing his skin. He set the lantern down on one of the boulders, cutting his palm on the jagged stone as he used it to lower himself down to the man. 

His hand shook with adrenaline as he reached for the man’s neck, skin as cold as death greeted him until he felt the slow pump of a pulse. His survival instincts were renewed at the sign of life. James reached down to scoop the man up into his arms. It was lucky the man was slim and James was broad. Even still, his footing slipped as he adjusted to the man’s weight, his balance teetering as another wave came crashing against the cliff and threatened to swallow them both. James could see the warm glow of the lighthouse in the distance as the water cut him to the bone. 

He abandoned his lantern on the rock, climbing over the black stones, unafraid of the darkness.

XXX

When he made it back to the keeper’s cottage he eased the man down on the bay window in his bedroom. He searched in old trunks for extra blankets and began throwing them onto the bed. He tossed some wood in the fireplace, the blood from his palm leaving an imprint on the bark. He lit some old newspaper with his lighter and closed his eyes as the wood began to smoke. He blew cold air against the kindling, hoping the wood would catch the spark and in the calm embrace of the warmth they could all pretend they weren't already dying. When the flames began to burn splotches into his eyesight James stood and remembered his siren.

With shaking hands, for death stood just outside the door, James began to undo the buttons of his white shirt. He would be of no use if he froze to death. Among the many ways he contemplated dying, Death's frozen grip around his heart was not among them. He dried himself with a towel in the bathroom before pulling the navy sweater over his head and slipping on the pair of long underwear.

When he returned, his charge was still breathing. He undressed him perfunctory, noticing in that moment that the curly haired siren was missing his left leg.

James felt like an idiot. He had entirely neglected to check the man for injuries. Looking at the leg frantically, James realized there was no blood. _There was no blood_. Taking a liberty, James lifted the man’s leg, the dim light from the fire highlighting thick scarred flesh. This was not a new injury. James examined the rest of the man from head to toe, noting his sun crisped skin. He had one cut to his cheek bone, a split lip, and possibly a black eye, but the man was so drained of colour he couldn't be sure. 

_How was it possible that this man could have no injuries?_

Not willing to ponder it long, James finished dressing the man and bundled him up in blankets. He stepped into the hallway and walked towards the end table containing the telegraph key. Thanks to the All Red Line, the island had been connected to the mainland since 1902. Taking a breath, his finger trembling, James recalled his Morse code. He tapped out the message - the even mechanical beep sending out his haunting plea for help. Even if the mainland received the message, there was no way help would get to the island tonight. The storm was too strong. 

The pain of glass in the kitchen window began to shake again and the wind seeped into the house through whistling cracks.

Death had been put at bay tonight.

James sighed, weary and finally ready to accept sleep.

When he returned to his room he added another log to the fire. He checked the survivor’s pulse one last time, brushing aside soaked black curls. He closed his eyes as life hummed beneath his fingertips, relieved, once again, that his visitor was real. 

  
  


XXX

The storm had brought various debris to the island. Splintered wood, floating bottles, fractured shells, dead fish, and tangled weeds all splashing against the black rocks. James would often go out and collect the strays. He would repurpose what he could while cleaning the shore. But now, he felt he couldn’t leave lest his siren awake.

The telegraph hadn’t received a response to his message and he had no way of getting to the mainland until the ferry came at the start of the month.

Part of James felt responsible for this man’s misfortune. He was the lighthouse keeper, it was his job to keep sailors safe during storms; yet that night he had been consumed by the voices in his head.

The more he thought about the man before him, who’s first sound had been a cry of torment in his sleep, the more peculiar James found him. The man had no serious injuries, there were no clear signs of a ship wreck, he hadn’t heard any news of it over the wireless, or communications of a lost ship. This man appeared from nowhere, conjured out of nothing, just like Death.

XXX

He woke after two days of sleep.

He woke, gasping for air, feeling the water bubble in his lungs.

James had closed his book, the hard covers echoing at the close; the floorboards joined in a chorus of groans as he moved to sit next to the man on the window seat.

“It's alright.” His voice was rough and too quiet. It had been some time since he had spoken out loud, for he refused to speak to the others, only her.

The siren struggled, he kicked against the weight of the moth-eaten blankets. His eyes scanned the room in panic, the setting no doubt different than his last place of peace.

“Relax, I mean you no harm.” The man’s eyes snapped towards James and they were as cerulean as the seas. “Here, quench your thirst,” James reached towards the window sill and brought forth a cup of water. 

The man’s hands were clean, too clean for a sailor. He had trimmed nails, free of dirt, decorated with little silver rings. James helped the man bring the cup to his lips, watching as he took measured and timid sips. As James pulled the cup away the siren’s gaze lingered from his eyes to an unfixed point over his shoulder. James recognized the widening of the man’s eyes with fear. He felt the moment the cup slipped from both their grasps and fell silently to the floor. He felt it in his heart the moment the man passed out in exhausted terror. James, however, did not need to turn around. He did not need to look over his shoulder to know what was awaiting him. For as he looked down, the water on the floor began to seep into the boards and turn black. The skin under his eye twitched as he began to hear the buzzing in his ears, the distinct sound of an insect’s wings tapping against glass as it tried to return to the world it had left behind. When next he looked up, the fly on the windowsill was on its back, twitching in death.

Yet the buzzing remained.

XXX

_HELP._

James woke, gasping for breath at the sound of the desperate whisper. “You’re awake.” James stood from his bed, not remembering how or when he had gotten dressed.

“Where am I?” The man asked, his lips chapped, his throat salty, the empty cup still on the floor.

“You’re on Maroon Island. Do you know of it?”

“No.”

James’ brow furrowed, that meant he wasn't from around here. “Hold on a moment, let me get you some water.”

James stepped out into the kitchen. He pulled a glass from the shelf, blew out the dust, and let the water run for a moment. When he looked out the window, trying to judge the time of day, he saw her. She was dripping wet. Her dress soaked as she climbed out of the water, her skirts splashing against the ground with a precise smack as she staggered over the rocks. There was blood on her forehead. A clean circle of atonement. Her lips were moving, whispering wordless pleas to him. James clutched the sink, his knuckles going white as he met her gaze. Sadness clutched his chest and then rage, before he slipped his hand under the tap and let the cold water sting him back to reality. 

His siren was grateful for the drink and drank it in its entirety, prompting James to fill the glass once more. Upon his second return, he stoked the fire, the threat of pneumonia an unappealing outcome. He pulled an old wooden chair from his abandoned desk, the legs tapping against the floor as he set the rickety thing down and sat upon it.

“My name is James.” He sighed of weary solitude. “I’m the lighthouse keeper here. Do you remember anything?”

“Not much.” 

The man smiled and James thought he was looking in much better spirits.

“Although I do remember my name: John Silver.”

“Pleasure, John Silver. I can only guess your ship must have wrecked in the storm some nights ago. Although, you don’t look like much of a sailor.” James raised an eyebrow. He had been in the Royal Navy. He knew what it took to work on a ship: the discipline, the muscle, the stamina. The man before him was thin and narrow. He was muscled, to be sure, but more fit rather than brute strength. He was also young, untouched. Except for his leg.

As if John remembered in that moment, he pulled aside the blankets to find his leg, or rather lack thereof. “My leg.”

“It appears as if it were a previous injury.”

“It is.”

James watched as John ran his hand over the leg, lifting it and bending his knee as if the phantom limb was still there.

“I remember … I remember sinking. I was caught in the netting. My leg, the iron foot was tangled in the rope. I kept cutting at the rope but it’s cords were too thick.” The man closed his eyes in concentration, the crows feet around his eyes crinkling. “I cut the leather straps off my leg, that must have been how I lost the prosthetic.”

James nodded. “Well I’m sure there will be some news from the mainland soon. In the meantime, you are more than welcome to stay here.” James reached a hand up to scratch at the back of his neck. “You might be more comfortable on the sofa - I’m sorry, the cottage doesn't have a guest room.”

“This is fine.” The man squished the padding on the bench beneath him. “Thank you, for saving my life.”

James' jaw clenched so tightly he feared his teeth might turn to dust. “You cannot save what Death is not yet ready to claim.”

“Are you a religious man?”

James fixed the skilled siren with a glare of his green eyes. “There is no God on this island.”

XXX

James ran a finger over the palm of his hand, feeling the tender cut on his skin. The scab was pink and young. His body was healing. His eyes looked up, out the window over the white kitchen sink.

She was absent today.

The kitchen drawer slid open with the rough squeal of warped wood. The utensils clinked as he pulled out a knife. He placed the blade over the palm of his hand, feeling the cool metal and tasting the sweet iron in his mouth. Stealing his gaze from the window he looked down at his palm, at the way the silver gleamed against his red flushed skin. His eyes flickered to his wrist, to the thumping blue veins singing him a song of solace, a temptation. He turned the knife in his grasps, bringing the sharp tip to the top most part of the cut on his hand. He began to press into the flesh, feeling nothing as he puffed out air like a frightened bull.

_“James?”_

The knife fell into the sink with a clatter, red droplets of blood staining the white basin. He ran his hand under the water and let out a breath of relief as he blinked away the light. 

He had forgotten that he was no longer alone. 

XXX

Maintaining a lighthouse was simple work really. Three times a week James cleaned the lenses in order to remove the layers of soot the gas and paraffin burners produced. He spent most days monitoring the weather and operating the fog signal when needed. He actively watched for vessels in danger and communicated to the mainland to report issues and suspected shipwrecks. Rarely, but when needed, he would even respond to distress calls and help with rescues. 

Most of the real work took place in the evenings. Every day at dusk, the lead weights used to drive the clockwork mechanism that turned the lens panels needed to be wound at the top of the tower; the burners needed to be lit and the blinds opened. The clockwork mechanism needed to be rewound every thirty minutes, or the light would not circle the island. At dawn, the lens rotation was stopped, the burners extinguished, and the blinds drawn to protect the optic lens from the rays of the sun.

Then, James could rest. 

XXX

John had only been able to stomach soup in his current state of being. This suited James just fine given the limited state of food in the ice box. James often forgot to eat, so having a pot of stew on hand whenever appetite returned to him was always a welcome option. He also needed his supplies to last the month, before they were replenished by the arrival of the ferry. Thus, hearty stews and soups were a staple for any lighthouse keeper.

The strange pair had, so far, only managed one awkward moment in their first days together when John needed to use the privy. Having only one leg, and suffering from exposure to the elements, James had to allow him to take his shoulder for support as they slowly hopped to the adjoining bathroom. 

“Have you gotten any word from the mainland yet?”

“No,” James responded as he collected the empty bowls and stepped out of the bedroom to deposit them in the sink.

“Isn’t that unusual?”

He heard John yell, the words bouncing through time before reaching his ears. “Yes,” he responded to himself in an inaudible whisper. James turned one hundred and eighty degrees, facing the small living nook that contained a second fireplace, a dusty sofa, and rows of bookshelves. Heading towards the comfort of stories, James trailed a finger over the uneven and battered spines until he found the book he was looking for. He pulled out _Meditations_ and grabbed a few additional books for good measure before returning to the warmth of his bedroom. 

“I thought perhaps you might like to occupy yourself?” He set the books down on the upturned crate he had repurposed as a small end table for John.

“Thank you.” He sounded surprised by the gesture. “My eyes are still a bit weary. Do you think … perhaps you could read to me? If you have time…”

James looked towards the clock on the mantelpiece. He still had an hour till dusk. It had been some time since he had read to anyone. He was afraid of where the memories would take him, of what ghosts it might conjure. Clearing his throat, James sat down and opened the book. “Accept the things to which fate binds you,” he began, “and love the people with whom fate brings you together, but do so with all your heart.” He allowed the familiar words to bring him to a place of comfort. And as time extended, James recognized that John was asleep. The corner of his lip pulled into the quirk of a smile, a feeling that had long been absent. As melancholy approached him, James stood. He would let him rest.

XXX

Dusk was romantic on the island. The pink and purple colours would blend into the blue of the slumbering sky. And when the sun would become level with the horizon the waters would burst into an orange glow, reflecting the light in the ripples of the waves. 

James carried his lantern in one hand, a thermos of tea in the other as he approached the white tower. He unlocked the padlock, the iron mechanism screeching with rust. He pulled open the heavy wood door before stepping over the threshold and sealing himself into the darkness. 

The air in the lighthouse was stale. Despite the darkness, your vision was constantly surrounded by dust mites and spiritual flecks of floating white orbs. When James had first entered the service he used to light the sconces on his way up the twisting stone staircase every night, but now the isolation and darkness had become inherent to his soul.

He stopped at the level two floors beneath the lantern room. This space was used as a living quarters. James had his desk, where he took notes on the weather and kept track of shipwrecks or rescues. He also had a comfortable armchair that he would often fall asleep in. Next to the chair were several old trunks - locked - and piles of abandoned books and dust. He deposited his thermos on his desk and then climbed up the staircase to the lantern room, ready to draw the curtains, light the burners, and wind up the mechanism. He was ready to illuminate the darkness for lost sailors and souls.

XXX

Time passed differently in the lighthouse. A keeper could often get lost in the hours and the sounds of whistling wind, like a siren's song on the waves. But it was the moments when there was no sound at all that frightened James the most. It was in those moments that he knew they were near. 

His feet began moving of their own accord. The heels of his boots landed against the stone without a sound. He could see his breath before him, frozen wisps of life that lingered. His pulse remained steady as he descended the stairs into the living quarters.

Death sat with regal posture in the chair at the desk. James could only see their profile, the sharp black spires on the headdress, the black lace and netting draped over their form. His eyes shifted behind Death and she was there. He took a step forward - she was too close to death, he needed to save her. But Death rose. James looked up at the mesh hatching of Death’s face. There was no fear in his body. He watched Death as they walked past him, giving off no heat, nor cold. He was transfixed as Death descended the staircase. James felt movement behind him. He felt his pulse rise. There was tension in the room now. Palpable emotions wafting in the air. He had let her down. He hadn’t saved her. James began to turn his head over his shoulder, fighting the urge to close his eyes, knowing she stood directly behind him now. The thumping in his chest rose, breaking when he saw her terror.

She stood silently screaming, her brown eyes vast, her face stretched wide with the desire to see everything burn.

XXX

James woke up with a start, sitting upright in bed, feeling his chest constricting as the sunlight came into view. He squinted, afraid of the light and the blurry shadow coming into focus.

“Hey, it’s alright.” John’s voice assured. “Just a nightmare.” 

James flinched as he felt the man run a hand over his thigh.

“You’ve been having them for a while. I wasn't sure if I should wake you. You looked dead tired.”

“How long did I sleep?” James asked, not remembering getting into bed at dawn.

“Just over four hours.”

James blinked with surprise. He couldn't recall the last time he had gotten four consecutive hours of rest. “How long have you been there?” James looked down towards John’s hand, he could feel the weight of it against the blanket. His leg prickled with static as John withdrew the hand, scorned, or mortified, by the suggestion in James’ green eyes.

“Maybe a half hour.” John was sitting in the hard wooden chair typically reserved for James. At some point in the morning he must have brought it towards the edge of James’ bed. “I was trying to wash my face in the sink when you began calling out a woman’s name.”

James sucked in a breath, feeling the cold unforgiving floorboards beneath his feet as he sat on the edge of his bed.

“Who’s Miranda?”

James turned his head a fraction, unwanted thoughts coming to his mind as he glared at the man sitting before him. Deciding to thrust this man - a stranger he might never see again - James decided to unburden himself. He sighed, looking down at the palms of his shaking hands. “There are many ghosts on this island John; Miranda is one of my own.”

With that James stood, grabbing some clothes from his dresser and stepping into the adjoining bathroom. He closed the door behind him, leaving the room in silence.

He turned on the shower taps, which screeched to life and rattled as steam began to fill the room. The water was scalding as James stepped over the edge of the tub. He leaned forward against the wall, allowing the water to pelt his back and turn his pale freckled skin red with welting burns. He let out a sob, his palm pounding against the tile, his knees nearly buckling as he remembered Miranda, as he felt her blood spray onto his face, her rage ending in silence.

James turned off the taps and stepped onto the mat. He reached out for the towel, unused to the soft and gentle sensations. He brought the towel up to his face, removing the water from his eyes before running the towel across the downy copper hairs of his chest. He walked towards the sink naked and froze in front of the mirror. Just like before, on the night he found John, the word _H - E - L - P_ was etched into the condensation. The word literally sparkled within the mirror's reflective surface. In a panic James ran the towel over the mirror, wiping away the evidence of his neglect. But all that faced him now was the truth. His own image mirrored back to him, his trimmed beard, sunken cheeks, the bags under his eyes: a man tired and weary of carrying his burden. 

He got dressed and returned to his room.

John now sat at the window seat. He was still wearing the clothes - James’ clothes - that he had dressed him in the night of the storm.

He was being neglectful _again_. 

James cleared his throat. “Would you like a wash?”

John seemed genuinely conflicted. His prominent brow furrowed and those blue eyes sunk into the depths of his face.

“There is a tub …” James didn’t want to expand any further. He didn’t know the type of care John’s leg usually required. “I also have razors if you want to shave, or I could trim your hair? It looks like you were out at sea for a while.” James ran a hand over the back of his head, feeling the bristles of his own lightly shaved head. 

“Are you sure?”

“Of course. Let me get you some fresh clothes.” James grabbed some underwear and socks from the top drawers before he fumbled in the bottom drawer. He was a bigger man than John, so he searched for a tight black t-shirt and found a light blue cable knit sweater. There was nothing that could be done about the length of the trousers or John’s slim waist, expect a loose hem and a belt. “If you need anything … I’ll just be in the bedroom.”

James watched John nod. He didn’t know if it was appropriate to offer help or not. Instead he stepped forward and handed John the pile of clothes. He watched as John leaned against the wall, hopping into the bathroom. When the door was closed James grabbed the blankets, deciding they were in need of a wash. He put a clean sheet over the padding of the window seat. He left the pile of fresh blankets next to the pillow and then brought the wooden chair in front of the fire before sitting down. He noticed that _Meditations_ was open on John’s crate end table.

“James?”

James looked up, agitated by the sound of his name. He saw John’s face peeking out, the door slightly ajar. There was steam billowing out from the room and rising as it dissolved into the morning air like someone’s last breath.

“I can't exactly keep my balance while shaving.” His head cast down in embarrassment, the dark curls falling over his face.

James stood from the chair. “I can do it for you, if you're comfortable?”

The door opened further, revealing a shirtless John with the belt looped tightly through the holes of the black trousers. James offered John his hand for support, noting that the man’s skin was still damp with water.

James retrieved his shaving kit and brought a bowl of water from the kitchen and put it on his desk.

“Are you alright if I touch you?” With John’s timid nod he proceeded. John had already applied shaving cream to his patchwork beard, and he had even managed to shave clean a segment of the left side of his face. James gently raised the man’s chin, leaning in with the razor. “Do you want it all gone, or?”

“Perhaps a goatee?”

James smirked, his own facial hair a symmetrical goatee. The room was so silent you could hear the catch of hair against the metal blade as skin was bared. James continued to shave away hair and wipe the skin clean with a cloth. He was concentrating fiercely, his eyes narrowed in focus in order to stop the shaking of his hand. As James turned to the other side he lightly cupped John’s cheek.

The sound of gulls arguing in the distance and the continuous lapping of the waves helped to calm James as he tipped John’s head up and drew the razor under the man’s neck. He had a vision of silver metal and droplets of red blood flash into his mind; his hand twitched before he quickly pulled it away from John’s bare skin. He cleared his throat. “How about your hair?”

“Perhaps to my shoulders?”

James nodded. He usually just shaved his head, it was much easier to manage this way, especially on the island, especially alone. He ran his fingers through John’s hair, getting caught in the wind blown kinks and twisting ringlets. He did his best to make sure the sides were symmetrical. He suspected if the cut was terrible John could always wear his hair up. When he finished, James helped John back into the bathroom where he examined his appearance with a smile.

“Not bad,” he titled his head, the image in the mirror following suit. “Much cleaner.” He ran a hand over his goatee and titled his chin up.

James had been pleased that he managed to trim the longer hairs of his moustache without severe injury. 

“Now that you’re feeling a little more able, you’re more than welcome to have a run of the house.”

The only other rooms were the joint kitchen and living space, but he didn’t want John to feel as trapped on this island as he did. He wasn’t sure why, but he wanted John to feel at home. 

XXX

After checking on the lighthouse and monitoring the mainland through his spyglass for any communications James set about the perimeter of the island collecting the debris from the storm. When he returned several hours later he found John sitting on the living room sofa: he had lit a fire and was thumbing through an old photo album.

“Don’t touch that!” A clatter of saved bottles and pieces of stray metal crashed to the floor in a concert of disjointed sounds. James leaped forward and grabbed the scrapbook from John’s grasp.

“I’m sorry—”

James felt his fingertips burn as they ran over the coarse paper. The corner of his eye caught her smile and he felt his stomach wretch. She had died unhappy. He closed the photo album before he saw the photo that he knew would break him, the one with the loving eyes. 

The bookcase shook as James rested against it for support.

“I’m sorry James.”

“It’s not—” but James screamed out in frustration, his pitch shattering like glass. 

The photo album clattered to the floor.

His breath came out in heaving spurts. He saw fear in John’s eyes. He felt it too. 

“You should come sit outside,” he said, moments later. “The fresh air will be good for your health.” James stood up straight, the veins in his thick neck bulging as he fought with his breath to regain control of himself after the outburst. He left John sitting there with remorse as he pulled a wooden chair from the kitchen table, the back feet dragging along the floor before he set it in the gravel outside the cottage door.

When he returned he looked at John expectantly, his brow and his nose upturned with authority. 

“I can’t get out there.” John tapped his left leg, the draping flap of fabric highlighting that there was something missing.

“I’ll help you.”

“You expect me to trust you after that outburst? I know it’s none of my business but—”

“I held a razor to your throat this morning. Did you trust me then?” James watched the ripple run down John’s throat as if it happened in slow motion.

“Fine.”

James held out his calloused hand, helping to pull John up before putting his arm over his shoulder. They had to side step over the scattered scraps James had collected with the intent of repurposing.

James noticed the tremor in John’s body as he sat down and felt the salty breeze of the sea. He ducked into the cottage and brought out a blanket, tucking it over John’s lap before he walked over to a piece of driftwood and a sharp blade that was wedged into the gravel.

He sat on a nearby rock, in close distance to John as he began to hack at the splintering wood. He felt the wetness of damp wood on his fingers. The sound of metal breaking through organic fibres with a dull thud sent shivers down his arms. 

“What are you doing?”

“If you’re going to help out you’ll need to move around with ease.” A particularly strong gust of wind brushed John’s hair into his eyes - the black curls that curtained his face looking like lace. James nicked himself with the tip of his knife, cussing as he sucked the digit into his mouth. “I’m making you a crutch.”

James resumed his work in silence, whittling the wood down until he needed to get John to hold it in order to measure the height. By the time he finished it was quite basic - but in another time James had been a carpenter. There was a handle for John to help disperse his weight and control his movements, as well as the ledge under his arm. James also suggested they add a towel scrap to add padding for comfort. 

They spent some time afterwards, working together to make sure it was suitable for walking. And as John became more confident with his renewed mobility, his smile grew brighter and brighter.

Both forgot their disagreement.

Both forgot the smiling picture of the man, the woman, and James.

XXX

The light from the lighthouse was blinding. He didn’t feel comfortable in the gruelling white that spotted his vision and made his head throb with sickness. He followed the light up the lighthouse, hearing his footsteps echo as if from a distance, the sound breaking only after his boots had hit the stone moments before. He was disjointed. He could see himself climbing the stairs ahead; he could see himself lagging behind, as if he was trapped in a void of infinite mirrors where the sun never stopped shining.

When he made it to the lantern room he saw her standing on the gallery. Her back was to him. The creamy expanse of her long neck was on display. Her hair was intricately tied up with pearl accents. Pearls of the sea.

He stepped outside, feeling no wind, hearing no birds, seeing no cliffs, no horizon. He stood beside her, their profiles in line as he tried to see what she could see in the expanse of light.

“I’m ruined over you,” he breathed, hoping she could hear the words he had been grappling to express.

_When I first met you, you were so unformed. And then I spoke and bade you cast aside your shame, and you were born into the world anew. The part of you that always existed yet never were you willing to allow into the light of day._

The woman turned. Her dress was clean. Her forehead was smooth. Full brown eyes looked up at James.

_I was mistress to you when you needed love. I was wife to you when you needed understanding. But first and before all, I was mother._

James felt the rough gust of wind as the woman began to reach a hand up to his face. He closed his eyes to accept the touch but his body flinched when he felt the splatter of blood hit his cheek.

James gasped, his heart rhythm erratic as he opened his eyes. He clutched the balcony railing tighter, his foot slipping off the edge. With a cry of panic he realized that he was standing on the edge of the lighthouse, the wind whipping at his shirt like cold talons trying to pull him over. The iron railing was frigid and rusted, splinters of crumbling metal dug into his flesh - another factor fighting in favour of making him jump. He felt another splash of water on his face and he knew that he was crying.

James looked down at the water, the rocks seemed to dance with the waves. He thought of their smiles and his breathing began to settle, his heart rate slowed. He leaned forward, his fingertips the only thing gripping the rails. It would be easy to fall. It would be easy to give in now. 

_HELP._

He felt his skin prickle with the force of the whisper. That was when he saw Death. Their lace fabric billowed behind them as they floated towards the cottage.

“No,” James said to himself. His eyes found John's face, framed by the window in the kitchen, the window with the rattling pain of glass. His blue eyes were watery with fear. “No.” James said again, his heart thumping in his ears as Death opened the door of his cottage. “No!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, his moustache curling, his mouth stretched wide. His hands gripped to the balcony rail firmer, the palms of his hands bleeding copper liquid.

As Death entered the cottage James’ decision was made.

He wouldn't leave John alone with Death.

XXX

  
  
  
  
  


_Time extends._

  
  
  
  
  


XXX

James lifted the spyglass to his eye, looking through the optic lens and out across the sea. He saw the cliffs of the mainland in the distance. He saw the watchtower. He saw no colourful flags strung on the communication line. He sighed. Disheartened, he lowered the spyglass. When he looked down he saw John sitting outside in his chair, a blanket over his lap as he peeled potatoes. The younger man sent him a congenial wave and James rolled his eyes. 

_Why the hell wasn’t the mainland responding?_

XXX

James wished that John would stop trying to be helpful. He wasn’t overly thorough when washing clothes; he’d broken two glasses while doing dishes; he’d nicked himself several times while trying to cut vegetables for stews he didn’t know how to make; and his incessant chatter was likely to drive James mad before the isolation did.

“If I teach you how to properly cook will you stop making such a mess of things?”

The offended look on John’s fresh face was actually quite cute; it was as if he was unconscious of how troublesome he could be. Despite this, he put up no defence and allowed James to show him how to hold a knife and how to season broth.

Soon meals were constantly prepared for him and James felt a warm sense of plumpness returning to his solid figure. His cheeks began to fill out, and he wasn’t nearly as tired now that John was reminding him - forcing him - to eat and sleep regularly. Even John had joined his reversed sleeping schedule, resting during the day and awakening into the darkness. 

XXX

The grandfather clock in the sitting room reminded James of a heartbeat. It was constant. It was soothing. He knew that it was there, but he had become so accustomed to the ticking of it that it became a beat in the background noise. Just like the waves of the sea or the chattering birds. 

“Who were they?”

James set down his spoon. He looked up at John who hadn’t eaten very much of the stew. “They were my friends.” He paused. He got angry. “They’re both dead now.”

“I’m genuinely sorry. What happened—”

“She was shot in the head.” James interrupted, hoping to shock him. The sound of John’s gasp was nearly identical to her last sound of breath as she shouted out against the evil betrayals of this world, as she did it for love. He had to close his eyes.

“And the gentleman was he…” 

James nodded, the ticking echoing in the back of his mind. “He is a lost soul, swallowed by the madness of the sea.” 

“Her name was Miranda, wasn’t it?”

The ticking of the clock froze.

James opened his eyes and looked up at John. He could see her image reflected in the black of John’s curious eyes. “Yes.” His breath shook. 

“And the man?”

“Thomas. His name was Thomas."

XXX

The wind sang songs in the attic. The sound of the waves acted as the base and the wind shifted between cracks and holes, changing its tune. Surrounded by bleached wood, the attic creaked and wailed with life. If James closed his eyes he could feel the movement, as if the wood breathed with the sea.

He held the rope in his hands. He pulled it through his grip, letting it burn against his skin. The fibres caught in the cut on his palm. He hissed, blood thicker than water began to ooze onto the floor in front of where he sat.

“Thomas,” his lips formed the name, but no real sound came out. 

When tears began to fall they mixed with the drops of blood, dulling their colour but spreading their sorrow. He got to his feet, his knees scraping over the floor as he stood. He titled his head upwards, looking at the beam overhead.

It wouldn’t be high enough to snap his neck.

James tossed the rope over the beam, watching it swing and sway. All that was left to do was tie the noose. 

_I have known you like no other._

James pulled the knot tightly. He looked up. Miranda’s face was backlit by the rising sun. She was free of blood and sin.

_So I love you like no other. I will guide you through it, but at its end is where you must leave me._

James' eyes searched her face rapidly. He couldn't fathom leaving her. She was all he had left. Even the memories of it were gone to him.

_At its end is where you will find the peace that eludes you, and at its end lies the answer that you refuse to see._

James let the noose slip through his shaking fingertips.

Abandoned.

XXX

“Here, take these.” James handed the paddles over to John.

“What am I supposed to do with these?”

“I’m going to try sending a message through semaphore: it‘s a type of alphabet using these paddles and arm positions.”

“If the mainland hasn't responded to Morse code, or the maritime signal flags, what the hell makes you think they’ll respond to this?” John waved the paddles around, causing him to nearly lose his balance as the crutch slipped from beneath his arm and clattered to the paved patch of concrete next to the lighthouse. 

James let out an honest laugh before bending to retrieve the crutch for John. “Now just do as I say and we’ll get through this without having you fall over.”

An hour later, and despite listening admirable, John had fallen over twice. 

The mainland still showed no sign of response.

XXX

“Now be careful with the gas. You don’t want to pour in too much.” James watched apprehensively as he relinquished his control. “That's it,” he encouraged and John carefully tipped the bucket of paraffins into the burner. “Good. Now we need to wind the mechanisms so the light can oscillate.” James took the can of oils from John and stored it in one of the stone cutouts. 

Next, James grabbed the metal elbow. The elbow attached to the winding mechanism and formed a crank. “Come here,” James waved his hand and John shuffled until he was in front of the crank. “Now turn it.” He watched as John put all the muscles of his arm into turning the crank, the old gears began to dance within one another as the lens began to turn. “You’ll know you’re finished when you reach the resistance.”

The metal made a firm halt, an iron clash as the crank reached its limit.

“I think that’s it.”

“Good work,” James gave him a nod, noting the bright smile of accomplishment as John tucked a fallen curl behind his ear. “Now you remove the crank and store it,” he instructed as John performed the task. “Did you set your watch?”

The little silver pocket watch gleamed as John pulled it from his pocket. It clicked, the gears ticking silently. James had lent it to him. It was Thomas’ watch. 

“Thirty minutes from now.”

“Can I trust you?” 

John looked startled by this. “To wind the mechanism?”

“Can I trust you?” He elaborated no further.

“Yes.”

XXX

“Make sure you get all the way to the outer lens,” James said as he looked through his spyglass towards a moving herd of grey storm clouds on the horizon. He looked at the anemometer that was secured to the side of the lighthouse with a metal elbow. The cups were spinning in the wind with great velocity, the wind hollering as if it was being thrown about. He recorded the direction and speed of the wind in his log. It was likely they were in for another storm.

“How’s this?” John stood, lopsided, leaning on his crutch with one arm, the other holding the cloth. 

James turned to examine his work. The lens was transparent, sparkling even; there wasn’t a single trace of fingerprints or cloth marks. James was floured. “It’s excellent,” he reluctantly admitted, but the feeling soon softened when John began to smile. The sight of joy startled James. His insides began to feel like clay: heavy and lumpy until someone’s fingers began to pull it apart and mould it. Not wanting to ruminate in a feeling that was too close to happiness James added: “It’s a good thing you didn’t clean the lens like you clean dishes.”

XXX

Secretly, James had admitted to himself that he liked having John around. He had been the only keeper on the island since Thomas had left. It was much easier to share the burden with a partner.

For the past several weeks they had climbed up the towering stone steps together - John was becoming eerily nimble on his crutch. They had lit the burners together. They monitored the weather together. They took turns winding the mechanisms, and sleeping, and operating the fog machine. In all that time, James hadn’t been visited by Miranda once.

XXX

The night was still. There was an unusual heat in the air, the kind that clung to your skin and anticipated a rain shower. The water was unusually calm, like a sheet of glass reflecting the sheen of the moon. 

James had stepped onto the gallery. An evening such as this needed to be admired. His cheek flinched, his focus shifting when he heard a twang of metal: John had tapped the metal grate with the end of his crutch as he navigated his way beside James.

They stood side by side. The sounds of crickets could be heard in the distance. The soft hum of the lighthouse lens’ rotation and the mechanical clink of the mechanism down below part of the ever present sounds of the evening. James did not know how much time passed like this, for they shared the burden easily now. And when a light brush of wind blew across their faces he allowed himself to smile at the way John’s hair danced. He allowed himself to feel familiarity, to feel comfort, to feel a thing he had so long ago refused to have again.

Faintly, in the back of his mind James began to hear the sound of rattling glass. He closed his eyes immediately, trying to get his imagination to fight the falsehoods. He felt his knuckles pop as he squeezed his fists tightly. The rattling became a building pressure like the whistling steam from a kettle. He bit down on the corner of his bottom lip, tasting the metal tang of blood on his tongue.

_Where are you?_ He heard, calling him back. The sounds of breaking glass replaced by croaking bugs.

“James? Where are you?”

James’ eyes snapped open, the lids red and moist. His palms were sweaty, his forehead lightly stained with sweat. His lips parted when John came into view, a look of sincere concern on the siren’s pretty face. 

James quivered as John extended his right hand. His lungs faltered as John’s thumb traced over James’ bottom lip, dragging the blood across as if he were painting him.

“Where are you?” He repeated, before withdrawing his hand. 

James swallowed, then timidly licked his lips. He turned to face the ocean, feeling heated and dizzy. He ran a hand over the back of his head and sighed. “Thomas Hamilton and his wife Miranda used to live on this island. Thomas was my partner. He … we used to keep the lighthouse together.” A smile began to tug at James’ lips. “Our days were filled lazily: sleeping, charting weather, going for walks along the cliffs, listening to each other read. Our nights were filled with labour and conversation, and good food, strong debates, Miranda’s music, and warmth.” James rested his forearms at the railing and clasped his hands together as if he was trying to catch the memory of happiness. “Here, we were unburdened of our shame from the mainland. Alone on this island. Until we were alone no longer.” A broken breath escaped his lungs, forcing him to stand up straight. “I moved away from those things. After their deaths, I moved away from happiness. Inch by inch, I forgot it all. And now, on this island, in the belly of this _thing_ that has swallowed us whole…” His voice wavered in the night as he turned to face John, too emotionally weak to continue.

“I saw you the other night.” The truth began to climb free from the empty depths. “You were standing on the ledge of the lighthouse. You were trying to jump.” John’s knuckles looked white as he gripped the railing to look down at the rocks. “There is struggle within you. For some reason, something is telling you to end your suffering and yet you are here. You continue to survive. What consuming thoughts plague your mind?”

“I wonder …” his hands shook, “if resisting Death doesn’t encourage it more. I wonder how I could ever reach those memories of happiness again. I don't know if I can welcome goodness, if I can forgive, if I will ever make order of the chaos inside me!” James flinched, a weightless drop of water cascaded down his cheek as the sky began to cry. “I wonder if the most enlightened thing I can do is sit still and accept what appears to be inevitable and let this be the end.”

“No.” John’s voice spoke firmly. “No, no, no. Nothing is inevitable here.” He limped forward, the water splashing with his step. “I’m showing you a way in which we can survive this James.”

James closed his eyes the moment he felt John’s gentle touch on his cheek. He wanted to accept it. He longed for softness, for comfort. Instead, he pulled away with a shiver. “We all face Death.”

XXX

James woke up reluctantly. He blinked the sleep from his eyes, the rim of his vision still blurry. John was still asleep on the window seat. He brought a hand up to his face, rubbing the flaky crust from his eyes. He frowned, a beeping noise was echoing from down the hallway. He stood in his long underwear, bare feet taking careful steps towards the threshold of his bedroom. The sound grew louder. The beats were distinct and precise, not random, but not unified.

It was Morse code.

The possibility of help reaching out awoken his senses. He listened carefully as he approached the telegraph key in the hall, the same letters repeating. 

_H - E - L - P._

James heart sunk.

The machine was not receiving a message. It was sending one out.

XXX

When James woke up John was gone.

He puttered into the kitchen, finding an empty plate sprinkled with forgotten toast crumbs. He picked up the plate, cursing John’s inability to clean up after himself. He set the dish down in the sink before his eyes expanded with terror.

“What the hell are you doing?” James shouted, running out of the cottage in bare feet and long underwear as he slipped a sweater over his head.

He watched John’s head pop up, in a rather guilty fashion. He had somehow managed to hop over the rocks onto the dock that was level with the sea. “I thought we might go fishing.” He raised his hands in the air and smiled.

The little row boat was knocking against the dock despite the calm midday waters.

“You’re an idiot.”

“Yes!” he nodded charmingly before placing the rods - James assumed he collected them while snooping in the storage room of the lighthouse - onto the row boat.

“Let me get dressed,” James grunted. He knew if he didn’t succumb to John's foolish idea the man would do it anyway and no doubt end up dead.

XXX

They rowed out to sea together. John in the back and James up front as their muscles propelled the boat over the glossy surface of the water.

When they made it some forty meters from the island James felt as if the whole world had flipped. The stillness around them made it hard to discern what was sky and what was sea; what was real and what was not.

Behind him he heard the sound of thick metal being dragged against wood. He felt the rocking of the boat even though their rowing had stopped.

Looking towards the lighthouse, on the cliffs of the island, he saw Death waiting.

“I saw a dead dog lying in the grass when I was young.” The world around him seemed to set in a saturated blue, as if the sun was hidden behind a screen of some kind. “She was an old bitch in life, and just a pup in death.” His shoulders slumped as if he had just realized something. He blinked at the memory and suddenly it was Miranda in the boat with him, not John, and they were rowing to the end, not the beginning. “I remember seeing the first flies set on her eyes. How strange it was that they looked so alive and yet did not move.” He looked towards Death again, shroud in a crown of darkness. “That was the first moment that I wondered what this moment would feel like.”

_James you resented me. We were content and I threw it all away._

Miranda’s voice spoke from behind him. 

_If you join me now, what if I resented you for the same reason?_

“What would I be throwing away?” he whispered.

_You can’t see it, can you?_

The boat rocked lightly and the breeze tickled the back of his neck.

_You are not alone._

When James next looked over his shoulder she was gone and Death had disappeared. 

He heard the sound of the fog horn moaning in the distance. He leaned over the edge of the boat, searching for her expression in the water with a feeling of panic. The boat began to rock, creating ripples, and unsettling his footing. 

The next thing that James felt was pressure in his chest and cold in his lungs as his body slowly sank to the depths of the ocean. 

XXX

Water seeped into his lungs as they struggled to reach the shore. He felt the stabbing in his heart, heard the ringing of the water still lodged in his ears.

The cliffs were ragged and slick. His back stung as he was thrown onto a rock, dragged from the sea, taken from Death, taken by John.

_You are not alone._

“Help,” he breathed to no one in particular, hearing the sob for the first time himself.

Meanwhile, the row boat drifted. Forgotten to the ocean.

XXX

The bed was soft, the blankets plush. He woke up feeling safe.

John was laying next to him. His tanned face, a vision, glowing in the morning light. His body, still in slumber.

The clock on the mantelpiece was stopped. James didn't know what time it was, he didn’t know what day it was, but time extended nonetheless. 

James' skin felt tight and drawn together. He shifted his head, slipping his left hand under his pillow. Little specks of dust danced in the light as he regarded John. His brow line was drawn forward, even in sleep. His hair was a wavy mess, piled high at the top of his head. His neck was exposed, the tendons delicately strong. His lips were drawn, scrunched together at the corner due to the pressure of his cheek against the pillow. The skin around the creases of his nose and cheeks were slightly flushed with heat - he was used to sleeping next to the window, not next to the warmth of another man.

James swallowed, allowing his eyes to travel to John’s chest, to the part of his bare arm where the blue blanket was draped over him, where it cascaded around him. There was a shift and his breathing became shallow. James watched the rise and fall of his breasts; it was mesmerizing, like his little siren was singing to him without a sound being spoken. He could hear it nonetheless. He could feel it nonetheless. He could see it.

When James' gaze travelled upwards he felt a pulse within him the moment he made contact with John’s eyes - the blue was darker than before. 

Neither man seemed startled. Neither man seemed scandalized. They just lay next to one another, sharing thoughts with their eyes.

“What happened?” James finally inquired.

“You were sinking to the bottom of the sea. I dragged you onto the cliffs.”

James brows drew together, memories coming back to him. He heard the moment John let out a little sigh of contemplation.

There was a hint of anger in his voice as he spoke: “Did you ever consider that I don't want to see you dead?”

James felt something inside himself break. “I loved him.” The bedding shifted. “Thomas.” He studied John’s expression, but it remained calculated. “I used to be in the Royal Navy.” He swallowed. “I was appointed liaison to the Hamiltons.” He took a deep breath. “We began an affair. It was Miranda first, but she helped me to realize it was Thomas I needed; it had always been Thomas.” James looked down in thought. “Once our relationship had been exposed, defiled, scandalized,” his eyes shot back up at John, “we came here: to the lighthouse, to the island.”

“Thomas and I worked together, loved together. Even Miranda was happy with our freedom for a time. But we became neglectful. Miranda had sent a letter to an old friend, Peter Ashe; she was growing restless with the isolation and inquired if he might be able to get us to Boston without Lord Alfred Hamilton, Thomas’ father, finding out.” James sighed, feeling the weight of the moment everything was destroyed. “It was a mistake. Ashe betrayed us. He and Lord Hamilton came to Maroon Island. There was a fight. We all refused to go. We were happy here. It wasn’t Miranda’s fault.” James let out a choked sob that was near enough to a cry. 

“They grabbed Thomas and started to usher him onto their ship, they intended to leave Miranda and I here. Miranda resisted, she lunged at Peter, and Ashe’s man shot her in the head for it.” He blew out a breath of air and then licked his cracked lips. “I finished the job for her. I’d had a simple kitchen knife hidden in my hand from when we first heard the engine and stepped onto the cliffs. I stabbed Peter Ashe for his betrayal. I stared into Miranda’s dead eyes as they sailed away with Thomas.” 

James swallowed, taking a moment to let the anger slip from his veins. “There was a storm that night. One of the roughest ones I have seen. The coastguards found Alfred Hamilton’s body and the remains of the ship.”

“And your Thomas?”

“Another soul lost at sea.” 

“I don’t know what to say.” 

“You don’t need to say anything.” There was a small hint of grateful sadness in his wavering green eyes. “I felt you were entitled to an answer, to the truth.”

“I’m glad you’re alive.” 

XXX

He climbed the shallow stone steps with great difficulty that night. His body was sore, muscles he hadn’t used in ages were sensitive to the touch.

He thought about the man who slept with no peace. He thought of his sadness. He thought of love.

In a perfunctory manner, he pulled aside the curtain, he lit the burners, and turned the crank that wound the lens.

The lighthouse needed its keeper.

XXX

Dawn awoke. The sun rose over the cliffs and splashed shadows of colour against the stone walls. Shapes began to emerge that made his mind feel dizzy with allusion.

His attention shifted when a glimmer of light on the floor caught his eye. He stood, unsteady, and approached. A large book covered in dust and fingerprints lay at his feet, beside it a broken shard of glass. Leaning against the wall for support he bent down to retrieve the brown leather book.

After he sat down, the springs in the armchair squalling, he began flipping through the stale pages. The book smelt forgotten. The pages were stained and stiff. Inside there were images of ships, styles of knots, and renderings of labelled lighthouses. But when he saw the little coloured flags flip by he paused. He could put the book away, but something in the pit of his stomach struck terror inside him.

He flipped to the page.

The nautical flags were listed and clearly labelled - each flag as it pertained to the maritime alphabet and each flag’s special meaning. His hands began to shake. Something was different. Something was wrong.

He struggled up to the gallery, bringing the book with him. He gripped onto the rope for support, pulling at it until his finger touched the cold thin fabric of a flag. It was white and blue.

Confusion overcame him before fear. He set the book down on the nearby trunk with a thud. A large finger traced over the page to confirm the translation. He licked his lips, the effort forcing him to breathe heavily out of his mouth. He looked up, examining the eight other flags waving in the grey skies. 

_ALL IS WELL._

Tears were building in his eyes as he fell onto his knees. He pushed the book to the floor, opening the old trunk that stored the flags. Referencing the naval textbook, he found them: the vertical white and red, the horizontal blue and red, the checkered yellow and black, and the blue and white squares. His lips wobbled as he hung the appropriate flags on the line, pulling the rope up and sending the message into the sky so the mainland could see what the new flags spelled out.

_H - E - L - P._

XXX

The wood was hard on his knees. The rough surface was a solid pressure against his bones. The pain was a penance. 

If he squinted long enough he could see the little rope fibres of the noose. The rope was fashioned into a perfect little teardrop; the morning sun illuminated it’s sadness with pride. 

There were tears streaked on his red face. He was weeping with indecision. His chest felt like it was being torn apart by time, as if the people he loved were all clawing into him, fighting for him. 

He heard the sound of dragging fabric before he felt static run along his spine. His knee cracked as the pressure deepened.

“I see no way out of this,” he sobbed. “No matter what I do it leads to the same outcome. And I wonder if it wouldn’t be best just to accept that I have no choice in the matter.” He looked back up at the noose as it dangled over the beam with a dance of temptation.

_You’re curious again. Ready to follow me through a door that is somehow less frightening knowing that I await you on the other side._

The house began to creak and sway.

“I miss you.” He glanced over his shoulder and found her profile, slightly out of focus.

_I miss you too._

He sighed, noticing Death as they paced through the shadows at the edges of the room. “I am to leave you behind?” Death took a step forward.

_Yes._

He nodded, the lines by his nose scrunching as his heart took a few moments to accept this and then sadness poured into his eyes. “What if I were to go with you?” He turned to face her this time.

Sadness was written in her knowing smile, pain upon her brows as she looked at him. When a tear came to her dead eyes she had to look away. He followed suit, looking back towards the noose.

He felt the exact moment her presence disappeared. 

He watched as Death backed into one of the corners, their lace fabric trailing along the wooden floor until they too became nothing but shadow. 

_You are not alone._

XXX

He found him weeping in the attic, at a precipice in his journey. The sight of a noose stilled his heart. He fell to the floor in front of him, a clatter of wood, and limbs, and desperation.

James blinked rapidly through the tears, John’s image coming into focus.

“Look at me James.”

James felt warm hands on his cheeks, brushing away tears. “I could die tomorrow and it wouldn’t matter; no one would know. I could let Death finally take me. My mind could be at ease. I could be with Miranda.”

“It would matter James. I would know and I would be bothered by it. I would not wish to trade your life for anything. But I understand it. I understand what your mind is struggling with. I understand the allure.”

James brought his hands up to grip at John’s arms. Holding tightly, he didn’t want to let go, he didn’t want to lose his grip on this man. Something shimmered in his eyes as he looked upon his image, something that felt like they were aligned in all ways, that they were parts of each other’s souls. 

“What a waste it seems to me, knowing it doesn’t have to be this way,” he whispered, “knowing that the man who saved my life has the capacity to save his own. He has the capacity to feel joy, and love. If he wanted to.”

James felt his body shake. He was smiling. He didn’t know why. He felt miserable. He felt desperate. He felt close to Death. And yet this siren pulled him back, pulled him towards feelings he wanted to feel again. He wanted to. _He wanted to_. 

He closed the distance between them and felt the soft breath of life.

The tender press of a kiss on his lips. 

_He wanted to._

XXX

The bed was soft, the blankets plush. He woke up feeling safe.

John was laying next to him. His tanned face, a vision, glowing in the morning light. His body, still in slumber.

James brought his hands up to his lips, his index finger pulling on the bottom lip as he felt the faint touch. 

John was staring at him affectionately. 

James' eyes mirrored his soft expression as he too even began to smile. His breath caught when John shifted closer - leaving no space between them, no distance where one began and the other ended.

“How are you feeling?” the siren whispered. 

“Alive.”

They both smiled. Happiness began to bloom.

“Kiss me again,” James asked. 

He slanted his lips as he felt the soft touch of John’s lips, lightly brushing his own until they found the right angle and their mouths came together. James clutched his hands in the blankets. He wanted to reach out for him. He gasped when he felt the wet swipe of a tongue. He opened himself into something more, into a consuming wave of energy that brought tears to the corner of his eyes. Tears of joy.

John kissed the tears away. 

“I’m going to admit something to you.” John's voice was a whisper of promise. “Please don’t take this the wrong way … but I didn’t think there was a chance in hell that would actually work.”

“Me neither,” James admitted, seeing visions of the noose but realizing it no longer called to him. “But they're gone. I can feel it.” The ghosts and Death were gone from this place, gone from the island. “They're gone,” he repeated, finally bringing a hand up to John’s chest to feel the echo of his heart. “Thank you.” 

James reviled in John’s smile and the shimmer of hope in those blue eyes.

XXX

James woke up with a smile. The bed sheets beside him were rumpled with sleep. They were faintly warm to the touch. 

The light coming in from the window seat was grey and overcast.

He heard the soft hiss of the dying embers in the fire and felt the chill in the air. There was a banging sound outside of the wall of the cottage; one of the window’s shutters must have come loose and the wood was rattling against the stone. 

He sensed stillness in the cottage as his feet touched the floorboards. His eyebrows drew together with the peculiar feeling.

He washed his face in the bathroom. The water was cold. The taps were tired. 

He walked down the hallway and then stood in the middle of the kitchen. His head turned behind him. But he was alone. He looked towards the living room, but was only met with silence. 

He was not disturbed by this revelation. He was not brokenhearted. 

He walked the length of the cottage again, but he knew.

John Silver was gone. 

And yet, he was not alone.

XXX

“James?”

James flinched. He was sitting on the sofa, reading the opened page of _Meditations_ , when he heard his name. He turned to watch the approaching figure: a limping man with long sea blown ringlets and a grizzly beard came to stand alongside him. 

“Solomon?” James’ brows drew together. His mouth parted. The ferry driver was standing in his cottage dripping clear water onto his floors.

“I saw your message James. The flags.”

James' heart began to flutter.

“You said you needed help?”

James felt himself begin to smile. “You came?”

“Of course.” Solomon smiled back. 

It was at this moment that James noticed: Solomon’s eyes were as cerulean as the seas.

XXX

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out on [tumblr](https://justadearie.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/JustADearie)
> 
> I've never done this before but I made [a video edit](https://youtu.be/gJqYhzsrslU) for this fic.
> 
> Comments and kudos are appreciated! I love to hear your thoughts.


End file.
